Thriving on Paper; Falling apart in Private

Redefining what it means to survive, stay and grow - even when nobody’s watching.

“If you’ve ever thrived on paper and fallen apart in private…”

I read this quote here on Substack a few weeks back, and it hit me like a punch to the gut. Not because it was new, but because it was familiar. Bone-deep familiar.

For so long, this was the only way I knew how to function. I kept things running — my work, my calendar, my conversations, my responsibilities — all in order, all filtered through a version of me who appeared strong, capable, organized, efficient. Someone who could keep juggling every ball in the air. Someone who always had a next step.

And quietly, behind the scenes, I was at times some version of unraveling. But nobody could see that. That was by design.

I was someone who always got the gold star — even when the cost of earning it was my own well-being. When I was praised for my resilience, I smiled and nodded, knowing that my resilience came from survival, not strength. From needing to push through, because the alternative — stopping, admitting I wasn’t okay — felt far more dangerous.

Over the last few months, I’ve felt glimpses of change… Like maybe the two versions of me — the one that’s public and polished, and the one that’s private and raw — were learning to speak the same language. That I didn’t need to hide so much anymore. That my inner world could show itself without shame or apology.

But then life reminded me — healing isn’t linear. Neither is integration. And the last few weeks? They’ve cracked something open again. That quote started ringing in my ears like a warning bell. I felt the pull of old patterns. The need to hold it together, to stay silent, to keep functioning, even as there were moments that I felt like I was crumbling quietly under the weight of it all.

Thriving on paper while falling apart in private.

I hate how seamlessly I slip back into that.

But here’s what I know now that I didn’t always:

It’s not weakness to name the unraveling.

It’s not failure to ask for help.

It’s not shameful to say, “I’m not okay.”

I’m learning — mostly the hard way — that healing is about allowing all of me to exist. Not just the curated version that makes other people comfortable. But the real version.

The hurting, healing, growing, grieving, still-here version.

And if this is a space you know — if this quote speaks to you too — I just want to say: you’re not alone in it. You’re not the only one who’s had to learn to speak their truth out loud after years of whispering it in the dark.

We’re allowed to fall apart. And we’re allowed to get back up. Again and again.

And again.

As I’m sitting here writing this, feeling the ache in my chest and the lump in my throat, I’m trying to remind myself that being honest about my hard is still the bravest thing I can do.

I’m tired of pretending.

I’m tired of making it look easy.

Maybe thriving doesn’t have to mean performing? Maybe we can Normalize It {talking about it, unlearning it, living through it?}

Maybe thriving can simply mean surviving, or maybe it can mean taking a deep breath.

Maybe thriving can simply mean choosing to stay.

If we redefine the word, we also choose to redefine the world around it.

If thriving means choosing to stay, then I’ve been thriving since sometime last fall when the intrusive thoughts became less frequent and less powerful.

I’ve been thriving since Ketamine Assisted Psychotherapy embraced me, dismantled the walls I’d firmly built decades ago to protect my heart, and shattered my need to censor myself for the very first time in my life.

I’ve been thriving since the day I promised myself that no matter how impossible it felt, I wouldn’t choose to walk out of my own life.

And that - that’s a hell of a lot kinder of a narrative than I’ve fed myself for the last 8 months (or, well, the last 30+ years). It’s a far less abrasive story than the one where I was “just barely hanging on by a thread.”

Do we deserve to be kinder to ourselves?

Immediately I hear the chorus of people who love me and the people who’ve advised me and the people who’ve stood in the ruins with me rushing in with their loud and boisterous yes’s - and I pause.

I hear them.

I know that in a heartbeat, I’d be in the chorus of yes’s for them too.

But it’s different when I have to answer the question myself.

Alone, in the silence.

Staring at my fingers on the keyboard, and the flickering cursor on the screen in front of me.

Yes.

Of course in theory we all deserve to (and absolutely should) treat ourselves like we treat our nearest and dearest…

Buts it’s hard to just flip a switch after 39 years of another narrative.

One that says if you’re not burning the candle at both ends AND in the middle then you’re not trying hard enough. One that claims if you fall to the middle of the pack you’ll get lost forever. A narrative in which the only option is the A, the gold star, the certificate of excellence, the game winning goal, the prize, the achievement.

It’s hard to recondition that.

Honestly, it’s hard for me to even want to recondition that.

But does it serve me today?

Is it on the pathway to merging my public persona and my private feelings too?

It is not.

So I sit with the feeling of being at odds.

I think about the girl I was two decades ago, expanding on paper and contracting in private.

I think about what I’d tell her now — after all this work, this healing, this realization that some parts of me will always ache. I think about how today I feel far from on top of my game, but that I’m not disassociating, I’m not shrinking away from the feelings, I’m standing up and saying “I need more. I need more guardrails. I need more skills. I need more mental health support.”

And what I’m inclined to leave you with is simple:

I’m here.

This far, I’ve managed to stay.

Which means you’ve managed to stay too.

You might not believe it yet.

But when you get far enough down the road, you’ll come back to this.

Come back to me.

Evolution doesn’t have to come with a revolution.

Sometimes it’s just a realization.

A shift in perspective.

Redefining a word — and, with it, an entire world.

Photo by Joel Filipe on Unsplash